Clipped
by Emperor Bass exe
Summary: Sarriss, a Solarite is forced into a deal where his very survival is at stake.


**Clipped**

**By, Emperorbassexe**

Agony.

It flared along the nerve endings of his spine as he lay face-down on the soft mat and violet silken sheets that did nothing to calm it and lay in a churned heap around him. Sarriss breathed through clenched teeth, his eyes shut tight against the pain and he turned his head to the side, his spiky-styled, teal-grey-dyed hair brushing against the sheets as his did so. The bare flesh of his athletic back was blistered and burnt, with the muscles around his shoulder blades twitching constantly. A pair of bony, charred, stumps protruded from his back between the shoulders which shivered involuntarily, sending fresh spikes of pain lacing through his form.

…His wings.

His wings were _gone!_

The solarite curled into the fetal position while on his side, and started rocking himself gently before a flash of pain told him to cease and remain still. Vivid images rose in his mind, they spoke of recent memories – his murdur of Scourges swooping low over the havoc of the battlefield, their weapons pumping death into a squad of space marines. Sarriss could recall his haughty laughter as the bolt-shells of the mon-keigh's weapons ricocheted off his ghostplate armour. He'd spun in mid-swoop, his magnificent feathered pinions flapping as he did, to lower the glowing barrel of his blaster and squeeze the trigger; taking the head of one of the astartes clean off with the resulting beam of violet energy. Sarriss hovered, his wings flapping to keep him aloft, and shifted his aim to fire again; this time the shot blew a leg from another of the hulking human warriors.

His squad opened fire around him, snapping off beams from blasters and a hail of crystalline shards from their carbines; mercilessly gunning the remaining space marines down. As the last giant slumped to the ground in twitching spasmodic death, Sarriss inhaled deeply; even from all these metres away he could taste it – the feeling of pain and death and the escaping souls of the kill. His own spirit flickered with the absorption, shining brighter like a freshly-fueled flame, staving off the leeching grasp of She Who Thirsts.

Sarriss' body shivered delightfully, as if in the grip of a drug, and snapped a few quick commands to his fellow scourges, and the murdur swept off towards another target on the field of battle.

Suddenly, their world turned white and was deafened with the noise of an explosion; the blast from the plasma cannon struck the centre of the squad – a miniature star suddenly popping to life. Sarriss didn't even hear his comrades scream as they were reduced to fleeting motes of ash and melted wraithbone shards; he had been in the lead of his Murder and that had probably saved him. Where his wings had been he'd suddenly felt... _nothing,_ nothing through the immediate cloud of agony at any rate, before he plummeted to earth. He tried flapping his pinions to keep him aloft but they hadn't responded and he crashed onto a rocky outcrop, the blow knocking the air from his lungs and the consciousness from his mind.

Sarriss recalled flickering moments of clarity where his consciousness returned for mere moments: he was lifted up from the hot, dry ground by the armoured forms of the warriors from the Kabal he'd been contracted to aid in the realspace raid, he'd been deposited – dropped really – onto the grated deck of a raider, he saw the fluid flickering of the multicoloured abyss of the webway, and now he was fully awake.

He allowed his teal eyes to open a hairsbreadth, fully expecting the harsh, shining beam of medical lights to slam into his retinas; Sarriss was surprised to find himself in darkness and let his eyes open fully and adjust immediately. He was indeed in a healing bay, perhaps nearby the workstations of whatever haemonculus was in charge of it, but he was the only one here – the other mats spread across the small, dark hall were empty, their sheets crisp and folded. Confusion alighted itself in Sarriss' mind, why was he the only one? Surely there must be others injured in the raid? He wanted to shift, to sit up, but the agony was too great. Sure, pain was a common – and welcome - enough feeling amongst his own kind, but this was the sort of rare, intense sort of agony that came only from near-death injuries; he'd consider himself fortunate if he only knew where he was.

From behind him came the smooth sound of the door to the bay sliding open gently, and dim light shined through, only to flicker and distort as the forms of those entering moved in front of the source. Sarriss suddenly craved a weapon in his hand, anything with a keen edge – he felt so exposed here, his weapons and armour missing, his beloved wings gone. His heart hammered in his chest, and the Solarite forced himself to remain still - feigning sleep, hoping that surprise would work in his favour if he needed to fight. The heard the footsteps clipping on the sterilized tiles of the floor, the steps weren't softened; whoever it was didn't have stealth in mind. This didn't mean anything in Commoraagh though, where sheer skill and raw violence and speed could mean as much as being subtle.

From the crack in his eyelids he was able to see the silhouetted form of the lead figure, the smoothness of their head and distinct lack of facial features indicating that they wore one of the mirrored jetbike helmets that the Reavers and Voidwing Pilots favoured. The Solarite flicked his gaze to the other figure, then dismissed it as a slave by the way it carried itself, if not for the tray of meagre foodstuffs it carried. He returned his attention to the leader again, examining the intricate Ghostplate Armour they wore, the colour starting as a deep, almost-black, reddish hue in the cresses of the plating; then brightening gradually towards the ridges to a brighter crimson with a near-rust coloured edging. A long blue-grey cape of a silk and monomolecular chain-mesh-mix cascaded from the Eldar's crescent-bladed pauldrons, it waivered slightly as he moved. The finely crafted Ghostplate and elegant cape indicated his status as an Archon of a Kabal. The armour he wore was blood-spattered, indicating that the Eldar had recently returned from a realspace raid. His form was devoid of weapons, at least visible ones; a sign that he felt no fear in this place.

Something clicked faintly in Sarriss' subconscious, but in this situation he wasn't able to really recall as to what. Ever so slowly, he tightened long, slender the fingers of his right hand; reading a fist.

"It won't do to strike me – if not for tempting me to break your arm, but for the pain your spine will undergo by moving so quickly in the attempt." The figure said, the smooth male voice hardly distorted through the voice casters of the helmet – unlike the crude speaker- things used by lesser races.

Memory of that same voice flooded Sarriss' consciousness, and as he opened his eyes fully, the speaker removed the helm.

"Xuuvas…" the injured Solarite managed as he slid slowly into an upright position and glared at the other Dark Eldar's face. Xuuvas' straight ebon hair possessed some violet highlights and was pulled back into a tight ponytail, better emphasizing the widow's peak which naturally pointed ones gaze downwards across a pale complexion to elegantly kept eyebrows seated above dark-orange eyes with a glimmer of arrogant mirth in them. His natural, narrow, pointed nose fit well with his thin face and high cheekbones. His thin-lipped mouth was currently pulled up into a slight, arrogant smile. The Dark Eldar cradled his pointed chin in the curled fingers of his gauntleted hand in an fashion of feigned curiosity. There was a faint red crust on the rim of his lower eyelids and faded coppery streaks running down his cheeks under his eyes. It was a sign that his condition still existed and a recent occurrence hadn't been cleaned up fully.

"You bastard." Sarriss hissed with narrowed eyes and a look of disdain at the other male.

Xuuvas' mouth fell into a mock frown, "It's delightful to see you as well, my old friend." He feigned a sigh, "I heard of your wounding and came to see for myself the extent of your injuries."

"Well, you've seen them, so you shall take your leave now." Sarriss snapped, but at the same time, shifting his position to keep the stumps of his wings out of Xuuvas' gaze – it was in vain.

"Ah," The Archon said, leaning over to get a proper angle in which to view the injuries, "A pity. All those resources you spent for the operation. All that time as a Scourge, and all the effort you went through to become a Solarite – only to have all that taken away by a lucky shot from one of those mon-keigh warriors." He shook his head.

"And what of you?" The injured Scourge replied, glaring down his slender, hawkish nose at is former associate, "Has Aestra Khromys forgiven you? Has the Kabal of the Obsidian Rose let you back into its good graces? Or have your actions garnered more attention from assassins and bounty hunters?"

Xuuvas chuckled cruelly at that, "Hardly. In case you didn't know, dear Sarriss; I've my own Kabal now; in service the Supreme Overlord."

An eyebrow rose in speculation from the Solarite, "Vect? And how did you come into his employ? The Blackened Heart isn't swift in accepting willing assimilation from other Kabals." He gestured to Xuuvas' armour, "And you still wear the colours of the Obsidian Rose, or close enough that your former allegiance isn't in question."

The other Dark Eldar's lips spread into an arrogant grin, "One must have something to offer in return for the protection Vect grants; and when someone like me has information regarding the Obsidian Rose… well; let's just say it adds to the appeal of hiring me." He leaned back, supporting his arms on the cot, "Indeed, don't forget our heritage, my friend. The Solar Cults serve Vect, and by extension, so do we."

"I serve many employers and are a part of many contracts as a Scourge." Sarriss countered, "My allegiance is not tired to a single patron."

"Correction, you _served_ many employers – no one will hire a wingless Scourge. A _clipped_ Solarite with no murder has little to offer the Dark City. Indeed, you also have little in the way of funding to ensure you can bounce back from this failed venture. You can't pay a Haemonculus for new wings at this time, not when your failure prompted Archon Dranier to deny you your cut of that raid." Xuuvas shrugged, pointedly ignoring Sarriss' shouldering look as he continued, "Fortunately, I've spoken with him about your release; as he'd originally considered simply taking your assets and leaving you to die. I convinced him to simply take your meager fortune and spare your wreck of a life." His expression turned smug. "You work for me now."

Sarriss' eyes narrowed to teal slits, "I don't need your charity."

"Oh but you do, if you wish to survive for any length of time; you do." Xuuvas stood, suddenly animated, "It can be like those old times as Razorwing Pilots, my friend – I lead, you follow; and we spread destruction in our wake! Only this time we serve the Overlord and the Blackened Heart, rather than the Obsidian Rose and its puffed up wench of an Archon!"

Carefully, the Scourge stood next up next to the Archon; his movements weakened but he made no move to support himself on his erstwhile ally. "And what do I gain from this venture, Xuuvas?" he asked, adjusting the silken hakama that preserved his modesty as he did so.

"You want wings, and a haemonculus to grant you such pinions again. I'll provide such things in exchange for your services; for you see – even as a sub-Kabal of the Blackened Heart, my own Kabal isn't without enemies. I'll need a lieutenant to guard against insurrection; and that's where you come in, Sarriss. You'll be my Hierarch."

Sarriss' wing-stumps twitched again as he mused, it wasn't much of a choice really – he could accept the offer of service and become the Hierarch within Xuuvas' Kabal; or reject the invitation and try and eke out his own existence again with no resources to aid him.

"If you perish, my sponsored Haemonculi Coven will revive you." Xuuvas added with a devilish grin.

That sealed it.

"Alright." The Solarite said, his narrow shoulders sagging in defeat as he relented, "I'll serve you. When shall I begin?"

"As soon as possible, your armour and weapons have been repaired and maintained whilst you were recovering."

"…and my new wings?" Sarriss reminded, tilting his head expectantly.

"In due time my friend." Xuuvas replied, laying a hand upon the other male's shoulder in a false comradely fashion, "First we'll have to remove these." He explained, jabbing a clawed finger at one of the stumps, pricking the charred flesh with the armoured point; pointedly ignoring Sarriss' resulting cry of pain.

"Surgery?" the injured Dark Eldar inquired, pulling himself from the Archon's grasp.

"Of course. It wouldn't do to simply attach new pinions at the broken ends, though it would certainly be within a haemonculi's power – The Scarred Hand Coven would prefer removing the older instance and restarting from scratch when you've paid off your debt to me. Besides, with your armour having been modified to fit your new station, you won't fit into it with these little sticks still attached to your back."

Sarriss gave a long sigh of annoyance, but nodded in reluctant agreement just the same, "And I presume this operation will occur soon?"

"Yes, within the hour; but I think it would do for you to eat something first and regain your strength beforehand." Xuuvas replied, flicking his wrist in a beckoning gesture. The previously forgotten slave - an elderly human male in ragged robes – hastily shuffled forwards and presented the tray with a bowed head, not daring to raise his eyes to the Dark Eldar.

Sarriss snatched up the pair of metal eating sticks and opened the two steaming containers on the tray to reveal a bowl of misarai soup in one, and strips of barbequed meat in the other. The scourge reached for one of the strips, but halted; turning his head to give a suspicious glare to Xuuvas.

The Archon chuckled, "Do you think me foolish enough to waste time explaining your situation to you, offering you a service; and then poison you a minute later?"

The Solarite perused his lips but said nothing as he popped the selected meat strip into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, realizing it was the rough textured flesh of a Zalnganar Eel from the fourth planet of the Drassin System in realspace. He washed down the bite with a sip of the soup.

"The chambers are prepared, my Archon." Came a rasping voice from the direction of the doorway, Sarriss turned to see the bald, hunched form of what could only be one of Scarred Hand Haemonculi. The being hovered on a number of snaking spinal tails that protruded from his spiked hump alongside half-a-dozen twitching, withered, minor limbs that were tipped with a plethora of bizarre surgical tools. The haemonculi's dark eyes examined Sarriss as if the Solarite was nothing more than a specimen to dissect and catalogue. The voice came again from behind a black leather surgical mask that obscured his nose and mouth, "Are you prepared, Hierarch?" The creature's four clawed hands scraped and drummed eagerly upon the metal lid of a case that Sarriss could only fathom carried more surgical tools.

"In a moment." The Scourge replied before swiftly downing the soup and meat before roughly shoving the tray back into the slave's arms, causing the old man to stumble.

"Then you shall follow Izmor and be placed under the knife. I shall meet you on the bridge." Xuuvas explained and strode towards the exit of the hall.

"The Bridge?" Sarriss asked as he followed the Archon.

"Didn't I mention? We're on my ship, _The Vehemenant Dawn_." Xuuvas idly replied with a shrug.

"We're not in Commorraggh?"

"No, we're en route to another planet for your first assignment. I presume you'll be up to the task?"

"As if I've a choice in the matter." Sarriss hissed as he followed Izmor the Haemonculus down the dimly lit hallways to the other depths of the ship.


End file.
